Analysis of a Heartbeat
by Ophelia's Flood
Summary: New version, new penname, same story. The Question. If she had asked for his life, he would have begged to die. If she had asked for his love, he would have wept because he had no more to give.


This was written in a frenzy of glee after rewatching the Season 4 Finale (and The Question) many, many times. I wouldn't dare to presume what Luke will answer (aw, who am I kidding? If he doesn't say yes I'm sure I won't be the only one trying to hunt down and injure a fictional character). This is just a look at the last few minutes of the show, from Lorelai's perspective.

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She understood.

It was not in his face. It was in his voice and in his hands; in the gasping breaths that came too short, in the low, rough edge of panic in his tone, in the grasping gestures, the clawing and snatching at the air as though he was trying desperately, with all of his strength, to take Rory's world, Lorelai's world, and patch it back together from the scattered pieces. It was in his restless steps, in his wild mutterings as he paced, in the strength of his hand as he pressed it to his heart, as though longing to tear it out and give it to her, for her to rend it, break it, crush it, do with it as she wished in any way that would make her happy. It was in his stance, in every line of his body, the tension, the panic, the anger not at Rory, not at himself, but at the world, at the universe that had dared to cause pain to the woman he loved.

She watched him pace, watched him pound restlessly back and forth, back and forth, watched him wave his hands and with that simple movement sweep away all misfortune, all barriers, all darkness that dared to threaten Lorelai's life. She listened to his wild speech, let the words roll over her, soft and comforting, with a force that was turned outwards to the world, with a strength that embraced her, protected her; there was nothing that could touch her while he was speaking, nothing that could harm her while he lived. And for the first time in the ten years of watching him move, listening to him talk, she understood him for what he was; for the first time saw his hands, not holding coffee or caressing her in the midst of a kiss, but clenched into fists that would beat back the entire world if it displeased her; she saw the strength and tension in his shoulders, the wild berserk fury and fear that gripped him whenever he thought she was in trouble or in pain. She felt his words and through his words, she saw his heart; a mad devotion, a wild fierceness that had been for her always open, longing to shelter within it all things fragile and warm.

"I can help." For the first time the words penetrated, and though he had moved on to other things, other insane suggestions and wild gestures, she heard only those words, heard the resonance behind them, the panic; I can help. I will help. I _must_ help. And she heard the unspoken vow; _I will help if I have to tear down the whole damned world to do it. _And she understood that he would destroy his own life, rip himself from home and family and friends, demolish all he had ever known and immerse himself in the darkest, coldest corners of the world if he had to, if that would make her happy, if that would go the smallest way towards easing her pain. If she had asked for his heart in that moment, he would have torn open his chest to give it to her; if she had asked for his life, he would have handed her a gun and begged to die; if she had asked for his love, he would have wept because he had no more to give.

And she understood the madness that beats back wild beasts and men in stolid defense of a hopeless cause, that fights a battle already lost; she understood the fever that tears sleep from the minds of the weary and drives them, debased and agonizing, through day after day for a glimpse of the light that men see once, maybe twice in their lives; and she understood the love beyond love that waits patiently for nine bludgeoning and horrific years, nine years of watching the one source of laughter and life run away towards others, who will undeniably break the fragile heart and steal the warming smile away. She understood the pain Luke must have borne in silence, and the pain he was willing to take on again; the chances he had let slip away, and the chance he was taking now of breaking his entire world, only to make her happy.

The realization overwhelmed her; the understanding twisted her mind, ripped away the veil of ignorance from the face of a truth so bright, so terrible, that her battered and weary soul could not comprehend it. She flinched away from that meaning, from that thought, from that love; took refuge in the pulsing stream of words, the rhythm of hurried steps, the soft dimmed lights of the room around pressing feebly against the abyss of night outside. She looked up at Luke and saw, with a shock, that he had stopped speaking; that the words had ceased, though the tone and voice had continued, echoing, in her mind. He stood still; not relaxed, but still, his hands clenched, body tight and coiled, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for some word, some indication of how to take away her pain, how to make it his. He stared down into her wide blue eyes, trembling, still, and asked, softly, "What?"

There was a blinding light within her, a warm blaze that felt like cinnamon and coffee and snow and the mist of early mornings and the fire of sunset streaked across the sky. Her breath came short, and with each gasp the flame rose a little higher, rising, quivering, and there was a pressure on the inside of her skin, a thought, an instinct that beat a familiar rhythm against her skull, that clouded her mind, that was the pressure of tears building up behind her eyes. The expression on his face, the gentle question, the pained sorrow, was the final agony; it broke her, it completed her, it transformed the nameless warmth within her into an inferno, a spilling over of sunlight and summers that spilled out of her mouth, that pressed themselves into the shape of words that she knew but did not understand, that held immense meaning but could not be important, for nothing was important now but Luke, only Luke. The words flowed from her, rushed from her heart, her soul, as naturally, as fully as though they were nothing more shocking than the release of a breath held too long; and her heart stung, her chest ached as though she was drowning and had long ago given up the fight to live. She was falling, falling; but falling was at the same time like flying, the same sensation of weightlessness, the same fear and dread so that she could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.

The words escaped. She did not hear them.

"Luke, will you marry me?"

She did not ask him with the words, with the meaningless jumble of sounds; she asked him with her eyes, with her voice, with the yearning and trembling darkness within her longing to be eased. She asked him with every fiber of her being, every quiver of her soul, and the asking was catharsis, was release; she asked him for peace, for love, for security, for home. And the wave, the eruption of light inside her shook, and shuddered, but it could not, would not break; for true happiness was impossible, was inconceivable, would never be achieved because time had stopped and she needed his answer, needed his voice, needed the senseless words he would speak before she could muster the strength to draw another breath.

She waited.

He found his voice, but it was hushed, muted, awed in the face of that yearning, that need, that he could feel as she felt. And he could find no words but an involuntary gasp, a shocked whisper of breath.

"What?"


End file.
